


Nearly Became Historic

by leahxleah



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1960s AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahxleah/pseuds/leahxleah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire suffers a blow to the head after a night of debauchery, only to discover he has confused fantasy with reality when he wakes up. Set in the 1960s. Written for hippie-pontmercy on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nearly Became Historic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hippie-pontmercy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hippie-pontmercy).



Nearly Became Historic

 

Enjolras would always be the first to arrive at and the last to leave a protest, whether he held a rifle or a banner, and sometimes this felt like the only constant in the universe. People were born, issues were brought to light, people died, the light continued on until it faded; but Enjolras remained the same. He was born, and would die, but something about him seemed timeless as the struggles of the human race.

There was something timeless about the cynic who worshipped him too, but the dark-haired man didn’t notice much beyond the end of his cigarette and the bottle in his hand. There were three chapters in his life, if he were to write a novel about his life: drugs, alcohol and the free spirit of an artist. It seemed unfair to give Enjolras a chapter—his name would be the title.

No better era existed to be a cynic or a believer than the sixties. The poets wound flowers into their hair, the wild roamed half naked, the fighters could attack or be mellowed by the rampant marijuana, the musicians could strum guitars, and the lovers could love without a price.

For Courfeyrac and Marius, however, ‘free love’ had varying definitions.

“I disagree. The human soul can only love one person, the same way sex is between two people—“ Marius began, and Grantaire grinned, leaning in to hear Courfeyrac’s rebuttal.

“If it’s only between two people, you aren’t getting creative enough!” Courfeyrac laughed, flicking Marius on his exposed nipple, to which he hissed and waved his arms wildly in response. It was getting dark and the summer light was fading, but Bahorel had lit a bonfire hours ago. The smoke was still flitting up into the sky and the Amis were all piled on one side of it, sharing several spread out blankets, one of which Grantaire suspected Marius had stolen from his Grandfather’s bed.

Marius had a crown of flowers placed on his head, some that Jehan had woven in to secure it, and the only person who was still fully clothed was Enjolras, who sat in heated discussion with Combeferre.

“Hear me out,” Marius continued. “I look at Cosette, and I think, ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with her.’ You can’t feel that way with multiple people.”

“Can’t you? Look at me. Don’t you want to spend an eternity with me?”

“Sure, but—“

“—and look at Enjolras, Combeferre, Eponine, Grantaire, Feuilly, Joly, Bahorel, Bossuet, Musichetta—don’t you adore them all? Would the rest of your life with them be unfair to ask?”

“No—“

“—see? Free love. Doesn’t just have to be sex, y’know. I get that you don’t want to have sex with Enjolras—the list of people who do extends to R and R alone—“

“—keep down, you dick—“ Grantaire jumped in.

“—oh, please, the only person who doesn’t know is Enjolras,” Eponine piped up, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind him.

“Speaking of which, we’ve gone a whole day of protest without a speech,” Feuilly commented.

“You jinxed it,” Marius said, going pale as he watched Enjolras stand up. Quickly, everyone clumped together, forming a depleted semi-circle with Grantaire at the tip, gazing up at the standing Enjolras with a crooked smile.

“Want me to get you your flag?” Grantaire teased. “You look like you need something to wave or gesture with.”

Enjolras spared him a glance and half a scowl before leaping headfirst into a summary of France’s intentions to go nuclear. The bonfire illuminated every curl and stray sparks from a firecracker Courfeyrac had slipped in earlier occasionally lit up his features, and Grantaire dreamed. There were thousands of realities he slipped into from time to time, all of them featuring Enjolras as the star and him as the camera, telling stories that rarely made sense and none of them worth putting onto paper. He had been a terrible student for that exact reason.

Unfortunately, for all his adoration, there was nothing he adored more than that wrath fixed on him, that fire that seemed to evaporate every trace of absinthe in his liver.

“Why not go nuclear?” he asked, holding back his grin. “The rest of the world is.”

Enjolras was cut of mid tirade, and he turned to face Grantaire. “For that exact reason! When you fight fire with fire, all you get is scorched earth. We all saw footage of Hiroshima—“

“—yes, but we’ll end up like Hiroshima regardless of France’s going nuclear,” Grantaire began. “Wait, did that make sense grammatically? Maybe. Okay, so think of where the USSR is, and think of where the US is. So the first missile, in theory, from the USSR, will head over Canada and then reach the US. The US will have twenty minutes to retaliate. That missile will pass, more directly, I’ll add, over Europe and us. We won’t feel the first-hand effects like the blast, but we will get the spoiled water supplies and radiation. In conclusion, au revoir. It has been splendid knowing all of you.”

“France going nuclear itself will not help anything,” Enjolras declared. “It will just draw attention to France and result in conflict with Russia hitting us directly.”

“Or, get Russia to back down,” he continued, standing. “Here, a practical example. Bahorel, can I borrow you? Thanks. Okay, stand over by Cosette. You’re appropriately American. I’m drunk and slightly cold, so I’ll stand at the other end of the circle and be Russia. Here, Apollo, stand a meter from me. So, Bahorel and I are fighting. Fuck you, Bahorel, you work out too much. Your biceps are huge.”

“They are nothing compared to your liver.”

“Double fuck you, mate. Anyway, I’m going to chuck a nuke at you.”

“I’ll throw one back.”

“What are you going to do, Enj?” Grantaire asked. “I mean, you could duck, but we’re pretty damn close. Same continent. Or, you could turn around, and tell me to piss off. Do it.”

“Piss off,” Enjolras said begrudgingly, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Well, now I have two places telling me I’m a dick. What do I do? I go drink myself into a corner. Which, consequently, I have every intention—“ Grantaire stopped, swaying slightly. “Woah. Woah. Marius, when did you get a second head?”

“I—I didn’t?” Marius replied.

“Yeah, but, like, this one looks like Napoleon,” Grantaire said. “The Emperor, not the ice cream. Woah. Trippy. Bahorel, can you punch it?”

“What did you take?” Joly asked, immediately leaping to his feet as Grantaire tipped towards Enjolras.

“Dunno—Enjolras, don’t move,” Grantaire held up his thumb, and then promptly fell over. He continued to frame Enjolras’ face, smiling faintly as he did it. “Beautiful.”

“He’s out of his mind,” Enjolras declared, and Combeferre moaned, turning his head towards Eponine.

“Every day. Every day I put up with this perfectly intellectual young man that has no bloody idea of the most obvious, human things—no, Enjolras, I’d say Grantaire has at least some semblance of sanity and consciousness left.”

“Shh, Combeferre,” Grantaire whispered as the other man came over, wrapping Grantaire’s arm around his shoulder, while Joly protested that he hadn’t finished taking Grantaire’s pulse yet, “Don’t be mean. I—s’lo ‘im—oh, you know. Can you—“

Bahorel stood up, taking Grantaire’s free arm and wrapping it around his shoulders as well, although this resulted in Grantaire being pulled part way off the ground.

“I’m flyin’ high, man!” he declared, grinning loosely. “Hey, Enjolras, look! I’m waaay taller, now. You we’e pissed when I gain’d an inch on you last year, but now ‘ve got the Bahorel boost and you’re, like, teeny—“

With that, Combeferre promptly tripped, taking Bahorel with him, and Grantaire was tossed to the ground. The other two quickly shook themselves up, but Grantaire remained still, his head pressed against the ground and his hands splayed on the grass.

“I’ll go find a payphone and call an ambulance,” Feuilly said, reluctantly climbing to his feet, patting a very pale Enjolras as he passed. Joly quickly rushed over, checking Grantaire’s pulse.

“He’s alive!” Joly declared.

“’ot much improv’ment ‘ere,” Grantaire murmured before slipping out of consciousness.

Enjolras wiped a hand over his face before sitting down next to Grantaire awkwardly, watching as Marius and Cosette put out the bonfire and waiting to hear the sirens.

OoOoO

In total, there were twelve of them in the waiting room: Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly, Bousset, Jehan, Bahorel, Musichetta, Cosette, Marius and Eponine, of whom Enjolras was still the only one who was fully clothed. Musichetta, at least, wore a bra, but Cosette and Eponine relied on their hair alone to keep them partly covered. Enjolras’ attention, however, was not fixed on the nudity of his friends in the brightly lit room, but instead on the only accurate symbol of France that had ever lived—the alcoholic who was being looked after several rooms away.

“He’ll be fine,” Jehan assured Courfeyrac, who was still drunk, although the addition of vodka to the situation had only made him mope more.

There was a place along his cheeks where tears had washed away a fine layer of dirt, and although it was only noticeable from a close proximity, he still kept wiping at it from time to time. He tried to distract himself with conversation with Jehan, which kept faltering and growing awkward.

“When I first met you, I thought you were a chick,” Courfeyrac slurred. “’Cause of your hair, you know? Really long. Can’t get mine that long, ‘s too curly. Also, I think you were wearing a skirt.”

“Probably was,” Jehan nodded, patting Courfeyrac lightly on the shoulder.

“Jehan?”

“Yeah?”

“You were a hot chick.”

Jehan sighed. “Next time, just read something. Don’t try coming up with it on your own.”

“’kay. I tried hard, though.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Nearby, Combeferre was trying a similar technique with Enjolras, although was eliciting only word answers.

“Probably just the wrong combination of drinks with a side of weed. He’ll be fine.”

“Maybe.”

“I was there, I heard him fall. And I’m sorry I tripped, I really am, but the bump didn’t seem that hard. He was talking, for a second or two, as well. He should be okay.”

“Okay.”

“You held his hand in the ambulance, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes you did, I saw you.”

“Maybe.”

“How did his skin feel? Was he cold?”

“No.”

“Are you going to say anything besides one-word answers?”

“No.”

“Well, if you’re going to be passive aggressive, just know that he would be really happy you rode in the ambulance with him. It doesn’t take a lot to make him happy, you know. Or sad. It’s funny, ‘cause you’re the exact opposite. I think that’s why you don’t want anyone. They can’t do anything for you.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re sad, now, though.”

“Yes.”

“Upset?”

“Yes.”

“Generally perturbed?”

“Yes.”

“He wouldn’t want you to be,” Combeferre finished, shuffling awkwardly before turning to Eponine, who he had an arm around. She didn’t require the same amount of attention; all it took was his shoulder, which she leaned into, shutting her eyes. Within the hour, eleven of the twelve were asleep.

Enjolras had taken to pacing, much to the dismay of the nurses, who were growing increasing agitated. Finally, one of them spoke.

“We pumped his stomach and bandaged the knock to his head. Do you want to see—“

“—yes,” Enjolras said, practically shaking as he followed the nurse, wanting to shove her out of the way. He was angry he didn’t know where Grantaire was alone, that he needed her as a guide, because she walked oh-so-slowly, and his heart was hammering out double the beat their footsteps were.

As it was, Enjolras knew where the room was when they were within the hallway, as he heard a wavering voice singing sweetly some song he had heard a couple times on the radio. The times it dropped down to a lower note or grew gravelly revealed it to be Grantaire, and as soon as he was in the room he grinned with relief. The nurse left, rolling her eyes once the singing stopped.

“There’s a face!” Grantaire cried out, his expression matching Enjolras’. “How’ve you been, love?”

“Love?” Enjolras shook his face, trying to calm his features. “What have they got you on? And I should be asking you how you are feeling.” He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest awkwardly.

“Better now. Here, you don’t have to be over there, you know. They put a chair for you here and everything,” he said, gesturing to the seat next to his bed.

“I—okay,” Enjolras conceded, stepping into the room and taking his place, surprised when Grantaire’s broad, calloused hand enveloped his own pale one. The fragile digits were contrasted by the utilitarian hands of the artist, which had a faint scattering of freckles and paint under his nails. He was taken aback for a moment by how warm they were and the rhythm his disobedient heart was hammering out, which he chalked up to anxiety about Grantaire being hurt.

After a moment, he realised that both of them were conscious, and pulled his smaller hand back.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asked him, frowning and sitting up once the touch had ended.

Enjolras nodded, feeling the blood drain from his cheeks. “That, was, uh, a good exemplar of Russian, American and French warfare that you put on. Simplified, of course, and I disagree with it, but good.”

“What?” Grantaire said, furrowing his brow.

“You don’t remember? You got Bahorel to be America, you were Russia, I was France—“

“—when?”

“Just before you hit your head.”

“I hit my head?”

“That’s why you’re in the hospital—should I call a nurse?” Enjolras could hear the anxiety creeping into his voice.

“No, no, don’t do that—“ Grantaire’s own anxiety was audible, “—they’ll make you leave. Just, ah, tell me what happened.” His hand snaked around Enjolras’ fingers again, drumming out a beat on his nails gently, using the pads of his fingers.

“We were at a protest, and I was giving a speech, which you disagreed with, and you gave a great example of how I could _potentially_ be wrong. Then you passed out and hit your head.”

“What was the protest about?”

“France going nuclear.”

“I don’t—oh,” he wrinkled his forehead in concentration. “Maybe.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Waking up.”

“When?”

“You know me, I’m bad with days.”

“Just—tell me what happened, when you woke up.”

“We were outside. I was cold. Hadn’t showered in a while. You were cold, too. Police kicked us out of the park.”

“How did you know whether or not I was cold?”

“You were wrapped around me, like usual. I always know when you’re cold, you do this thing where you inch closer until you’re millimeters from touching me, but you won’t get any closer. I have to do that. Chicken. Even in your sleep you chicken out.”

“When—when did we sleep together? Was this after a protest? Did we fall asleep?”

“We always sleep together—at least, for a while now—are you okay? Are you sure it was me who hit my head?” Grantaire was quickly going pale, the smile on his lips faltering.

“Why are you holding my hand?”

Grantaire gripped tighter. “I always hold your hand. I’m not good for much else.”

“What else do we always do?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Do we kiss? Lie together? Are we like Cosette and Marius?”

“No one is like Cosette and Marius,” Grantaire said nervously. “I mean, we do those things, but you usually want to keep things private—that’s why you don’t spend too much time with me, right? You said so. Usually, I mean, but you whispered in my ear, I remember that, you said nice things, asked me not to leave you—“

“—Grantaire, that didn’t happen.”

“What?”

“It didn’t happen. We don’t kiss. We don’t lie together, we don’t hold hands—I—you and I, we’re just friends. Sometimes. I didn’t even know you really liked me as a friend, either.”

“You didn’t—what? How?”

“How what?”

“How can you forget? I tell you every day.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I love you,” Grantaire said simply, looking up at him through swimming blue eyes. “That was real. I remember. I remember too much for it not to be real. I remember everything. You never say anything back, you just kiss me, and that’s okay. Sometimes, when you do that, I feel like I’ve brought a stature to life with my words, and you asked me not to leave you.”

“I told you that in the ambulance.”

“Okay, but why would you say that?” he asked. “If we weren’t…together, why would you ask me that?”

“You mean a lot to—everyone. You’re our friend.”

“But—only you said it. And only you’re here—oh, oh shit! Am I dead?” Grantaire spun around wildly, looking at the window, Enjolras and the walls.

“No, you’re ali—“

“—fuck, that makes sense! Is this hell? Ha, you sneaky bastard, I caught you! I know Enjolras, and I may be a cynical asshole, but I know he loves me. That’s the only thing this empty head knows that is worth knowing.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras felt something crack inside of him as he took the darker hand, raising it gently and pressing it to his chest. “Feel that?”

“What?”

“My heart.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, and it was as if his entire world had been revealed to be a doodle which Enjolras had grabbed and crumpled up.

OoOoO

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, putting his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth simultaneously. “Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras. I swear to God. No, wait, you won’t take that seriously enough—I swear to Robespierre, you are the biggest idiot I have ever met.”

“Pardon me, Combeferre, for not having experience with this sort of thing!” Enjolras declared, shaking his head angrily. “He just—sprung it on me! Like I always knew! Like we were together! Like he loved me!”

“Like he loved you? _Like_?”

“I don’t get what you’re implying.”

“You do get it, you’re just denying it because you are feeling rather dumb, I imagine,” Combeferre said, gesturing out his points. “But let’s talk about you, okay? How did you feel when he acted like you were dating?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do, you’re just being an ass.”

“Combeferre, you are a conspiracy theorist.”

“Does that make you the government?”

Enjolras froze. “You—no. I am _not_ the government.”

“Then talk.”

“Fine. I felt…feelings.”

“Feelings?”

“Yes. They were like, ah—sensations.”

“Were they sensational?”

“Yes and no. They were good and bad. The way he looked at me when I first came in—I’ve never seen him happier, not even when someone says, ‘the next round is on me.’ He grinned, and not in a sarcastic way, either. He called me ‘love,’ and, I mean, it was still him, but not the way he is when he’s usually around me. It felt like he actually loved me. And I felt—felt—so many things.”

“What was the first one?”

“Happy. But too much. It almost hurt, like when I think about how far the world has come, or how long I’ve known everyone, and him.”

“It hurt you to know he was happy because of something you didn’t do.”

“Yes. And then he held my hand.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How did that feel?”

“None of your business.”

“So close,” Combeferre sighed to himself.

“I’ve begun to suspect, Combeferre, that I’m a bad person. I spend all my time fighting for a peaceful world, I want equality but I hold myself above others, and I want everyone to be able to love when I can’t even—“ he broke off, chewing the inside of his lip.

“You’ve never hurt anyone, and you know you’re just as good or as shitty as anyone else,” Combeferre pointed out.

“But I still can’t—can’t—“

“—finish your sentences? Yeah, I agree on that one.”

“He’s an asshole. If you hit your head, you wouldn’t do this to me.”

“No, I prefer women,” Combeferre said, smiling to himself.

“I wasn’t talking about that.”

“Yes you were.”

Enjolras sighed, resting his head on Combeferre’s kitchen table. “I don’t get people. Don’t laugh, I really don’t. Governments? Sure. Oppression? Revolution? Ending war? Count on me. People? Feelings? No thank you, I’ll take nukes. You can do feelings, and Courfeyrac.”

“You can’t delegate your feelings!”

“I’m not delegating, I’m micromanaging.”

Unsurprisingly, Enjolras found himself incredibly uncomfortable at their next meeting. The Café Musain’s back room was almost at full capacity, but Enjolras was still attempting to duck behind and peer through people, trying to catch a glimpse and simultaneously avoid Grantaire. There were several dark, curly heads of hair, one of whom belonged to Courfeyrac, so he continued to jump anxiously and then sink disappointedly into his seat.

Courfeyrac found the entire display hilarious, and had made it a game with Jehan to see how many times he could psyche out Enjolras as he darted close and then bobbed away. They had reached six when Enjolras stood up on his impromptu stage and the others sat down, everyone suddenly watching their fear-struck leader raptly.

“Now that I’ve gathered you all hear, I’d like to redirect your attention to the nuclear crisis. De Gaulle seems to be moving further towards arming France on a nuclear scale, despite the outcome of Hiroshima and the Cold War not being ours to fight. The more nukes, the worse this will end. We are wasting resources arming ourselves when instead we should be working on defence, like fallout shelters—“

“—won’t work,” said a familiar voice in a sing song tone. Grantaire’s face was half obscured by a bottle and he sat in the far corner, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “If the world goes up, we’re done. Duck and cover will do fuck all. Like I said a week ago, it will be good bye not just for us, but for most of the world. Australia might get off okay. Maybe.”

“Well, let’s just throw a match onto an oil spill,” Enjolras said. “You’ve heard my arguments, and you’re just repeating your own. No one should have nukes.”

“They’d build something even more dangerous if they didn’t have nukes. No matter which way you look at it, we’re screwed. Better hope those cow sacrifices you’ve been making have pleased the aliens, so they can beam you up. What, none of you have sacrificed any cows?” Grantaire looked mock-shocked.

“Do you mean cow tipping?” Bousset asked. “That was an accident, I swear. I just _backed_ into the cow, I didn’t see it!”

“I did it on purpose,” Courfeyrac said, grinning.

“See? Bossuet, Courf and I are set,” Grantaire said, shrugging. “Enjolras, you better come with us next time, or you’re screwed. Yes, I’m sure France will miss your pretty face, but you can set up a new France in space. All red. Maybe on Mars, hm? Would that make you happy?”

“Should you be high when you have a head injury?” Enjolras asked Grantaire.

“I am startlingly sober,” he replied. “Still having these delusions of happiness, however. Don’t worry, the doc said that’ll wear off in a week or two.”

“Do I still have Napoleon as a second head?” Marius blurted out.

“No, sorry, Pontmercy. But I promise you, the Emperor will always be in your heart,” he said, hitting Marius across the chest with an open palm.

Marius winced. “I think I should start wearing shirt,” he murmured to Cosette. Cosette couldn’t wipe the grin off her face.

 Musichetta, however, was glaring at the two of them skeptically, Bossuet next to her patting her knee. Combeferre’s expression at their interaction was equally dark, which Eponine noticed.

“Have they done anything?” she whispered to him.

“God, no. That would be admitting that they were human,” Combeferre said, rolling his eyes. “It’s been legal here for bloody ever, I don’t know why they don’t just—“

“—it could be legal for them to have sex in public and they still wouldn’t do it,” Eponine pointed out. “Speaking of which--hey, Enjolras, when’s the indecent exposure rally?”

“Friday,” Enjolras replied. “Park again. If you plan on having sex as a part of the protest, I encourage you to pull apart quickly so you don’t get arrested, run in a circle and then rejoin us away from your partner half an hour later. Whatever you do, no one invite Gavroche.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “He’ll be pissed.”

“He’s eight, he’ll get over it,” Eponine pointed out, and just like that, the meeting was over. Enjolras could gather a crowd, and Eponine could disperse one with her flawless tone of finality. Combeferre beamed at her, then scowled when he looked back at Enjolras.

“’Taire will want to talk and he’ll just try to worm out of it—“

“—quick, block the exists!” Eponine declared, leaping to her feet and carefully monitoring the stream of people leaving the room while Combeferre glared at Enjolras and Grantaire.

Enjolras, for once, had no intention of being a coward. He sat down by the window, waiting patiently and nervously tapping his foot, hoping that was a good indication that he wanted to start a conversation. Maybe he should make the first move, maybe Grantaire didn’t want to talk to him, maybe he had earned it, maybe he just needed to say—

“—you’re a dick, you know, for not coming to see me,” Grantaire said, sitting down across from Enjolras, spreading his legs wide and pushing back the grin that was threatening to spread across his face.

“You look well.”

“For a man with delusions, apparently.”

“I’m sorry, R.”

“That what? That I have false memories of us being in a relationship? That I fell in love with a pretend version of you? That I have a head injury? That you don’t love me back?”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably.

Grantaire laughed, although it didn’t carry the same resonance it usually did. “It’s okay. I was a boxer, before I joined you peace loving fuckers. I remember how to roll with the punches.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s the flattery,” Grantaire said, shaking his head. “Anyway, give it a week and I’ll be over it.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Enjolras said simply.

“Don’t look so sad, you make me feel the same way,” was the response he was given, to which Enjolras shook his head. “I have missed you, though. Would you mind going out with me?”

“I—“

“—not like that, don’t look so panicked. I meant to chase a good party or two. Maybe five. I realise you aren’t a big drinker, but just for tonight?”

“Sure,” Enjolras said, feeling it was the least he could do. He was plagued by foreign sensations that were making him squirm, much to Combeferre’s glee across the room, and while he hated people on a good day, he needed more of Grantaire. Guilt was bizarre; if he looked it in the face, he felt nothing, but as soon as he glanced away, as soon as he left the Musain and Grantaire’s company, he would be plagued by it.

Grantaire lit up like a national holiday, gently taking the crook of Enjolras’ arm, leading him into the night. It became quickly apparent that there were very few parties in the direction Grantaire was heading, but there was a series of restaurants and cafés, which Grantaire dodged with precision. The night air was warm and embracing, and Enjolras would have loved to have a protest in such a comfortable temperature. When he told Grantaire that, the other man laughed.

“Too bad you aren’t into the ‘whole flower in your hair’ craze. It would suit you perfectly—all marble like with your principles, with a side of pretty.”

“I’m not pretty,” Enjolras stated coolly.

Grantaire bit back a smile. “Absolutely not.”

“I am just a person. No more attractive than anyone else with facial features that are relatively equal distance from each other.”

“Actually, you have a small scar under your right nostril.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. And a beauty mark on your ear.”

“It’s a mole.”

“No, love, it’s a beauty mark.”

“You’d be a good lover,” Enjolras blurted out, wishing he’d bit his tongue the second the words escaped. Once they were out, however, he attempted to recant them. “Accept for, y’know, the drinking, smoking and cynicism.”

“That’s my entire personality,” he stated, then shrugged. “Do go on about the good bit, though.”

“No thanks. My mouth just—well, no, I’m not saying anything more.”

“Please give your poor mouth a chance to talk about something enjoyable. It spends all its time chewing over politics and law, which are dull topics even when we might all get blown to oblivion any moment,” Grantaire remarked.

“It is attached to my brain, it isn’t a sentient being,” Enjolras replied. “Therefore, my mouth enjoys taking about politics as much as my brain enjoys thinking about them.”

“You speak the most romantic language in the world from one of the prettiest—that isn’t up for debate—mouths, and you say the most unpleasant things. ‘Grantaire, put down the bottle,’ ‘Grantaire, the world is coming to an end,’ ‘Grantaire, this is the fiftieth meeting you’ve been late!’”

“Those things need to be said! Besides, what about you? You were taught some of the best, most brilliant ideas ever dreamt up, and all you spend your time doing is waxing lyrics and being skeptical. Maybe I’m not a poet, but you’re hardly Robespierre.”

“And you aren’t Da Vinci.”

“No.”

“I’ll be Da Vinci, and you be Robespierre.”

“Deal.”

“I’d suggest a pint, but,” Grantaire tapped his head, stirring his curls. Enjolras felt a surge of affection for the mass of untamed hair, forcing himself to keep his fingers balled in his pockets. He pressed his shoulder against Grantaire’s.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, wondering if this was how Joly felt on a regular basis.

“No, they gave me great drugs for that,” the grin returned, “although they don’t give you a trip. Not even a buzz. Just radio silence. Weird phrase, huh? I’ve never heard a radio be silent.”

“Dead radio.”

“Makes me want to dance. Do you have a radio? I bet. What about a record player?”

“Of course.”

“What do you put on, when you’re ending world hunger and crushing dictatorships with your pen, hm? Jazz? Rock? Probably something psychedelic.”

“Mostly classics. You?”

“Rock, jazz—but wait, are we talking Beethoven? Bach?  That’s disappointingly calm.”

“Then you haven’t listened to it right.”

“You’re on, Apollo,” Grantaire declared.

With that, Enjolras directed Grantaire towards his apartment, a small, well-maintained studio space that smelt slightly of coffee and the running ink of newspapers. Grantaire nodded as he entered, as though this was exactly what he had been expecting, and promptly sat on Enjolras’ kitchen table, lighting a cigarette.

“Man, I miss weed,” he reminisced briefly before Enjolras shooed him off the table, placing his record player where Grantaire had been sitting, spending a few moments adjusting it before taking down a record and putting it on carefully. Grantaire slid into a seat next to Enjolras, the back of the chair pressed into the wall, taking a deep drag and watching the other man with pure, utter happiness spreading across his features as though it had been melted there.

Enjolras glanced at him curiously, taking in the face before stealing the cigarette, inhaling it for himself briefly before putting it out on the President’s face on a newspaper, smudging it along the journalists name shortly after.

“Blasphemous,” Grantaire murmured, taking the butt of the cigarette back, winding his fingers around Enjolras’ not unlike the way he had in the hospital, only this time with a more tentative grip.

“He’s a man, not a flag,” Enjolras replied, his eyes on the rough digits that danced underneath his own. Grantaire’s hand was large, but the way it held Enjolras’ was gentle, as though that was the only touch it knew how to give.

“You’ll hate whoever sits in that man’s seat, even if they are Mademoiselle France and wear only the flag.”

“I’d especially hate them then.”

Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras took the opportunity to study the fingers at his disposal. The nails had been filed down unevenly and there were flecks of paint underneath them, and it bothered Enjolras that he had never seen the canvases that these hands caressed so regularly. They got this type of petting on a regular basis while Enjolras had to be alone and with a concussed Grantaire to receive their silent gestures of affection, and he found himself jealous of strips of fabric.

“Would you ever head France?”

“I’m France’s lover, not its ruler.”

“Flowers in your hair,” Grantaire sighed. “I’d paint you with them, but I need a reference.”

“When you dreamed of me, did I have flowers then?”

Grantaire paused, half retracting his fingers. Enjolras let him pull away, despite the way some massive organ in his chest seemed to go with those digits. Combeferre’s voice popped up in his head, demanding that Enjolras explain his feelings, and Enjolras wanted nothing more than to carve them out. They hurt more than bullets could, eight shots for each letter in Grantaire’s name, sans the ‘E’, which Enjolras encompassed. Martyrs don’t know how to live—they know their cause and nothing else, so they don’t know what they miss when they die. Enjolras was facing all he might have lost in another life, and he was unwilling to surrender it completely.

“Sometimes,” Grantaire remarked. “I think it was something to do with a protest, though. Colour themed. Jehan dyed them.”

“Was I happy?”

“You felt a lot of different things. You were human.”

“Am I not human now?”

“Sometimes.”

“I am human. You can touch me, feel my pulse,” Enjolras told Grantaire, offering his bare wrist.

“Have you ever loved someone?”

Enjolras fell silent.

“Love doesn’t belong just to humans, mind you. It’s a trait of sentience, of being awake and with all parts of your brain flipped on. Maybe someone hit the wrong switch with you, Enj. Passion, just in the wrong category, y’know?”

“I love people.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I love them in different ways. Some like friends, others—differently.”

“Differently?”

“Combeferre tells me I don’t do well with feelings,” Enjolras admitted and Grantaire patted him on the head, shaking loose several blonde strands.

“As long as you feel them,” Grantaire said, tapping him lightly on the nose. “That’s what inspires genius. Your favourite composers were all hopeless lovers. Remember that.”

“Artists and revolutionaries are different.”

“They both create new worlds. Or, at least, try to. Tell me, oh great leader, what yours looks like?”

“Freedom, equality, peace, love. The usual.”

Grantaire smiled, laying a hand on Enjolras’ bicep, which Enjolras covered with his own. The record ended and Enjolras made no move to stand up, instead lowering his chin and taking in the blue eyes before him that regarded him with no symptoms of heartbreak. If anything, there was an edge of determination along with the happiness. The corners of his lips curled up and the sides of his eyes bore soft crinkles, and within an instant the dust in the room turned into a golden glow.

“I dream of that sometimes, too. Freedom, mostly. Love. All of those words you listed. They all mean the same thing, really.”

“They most definitely do not. This is why you are so cynical—you don’t get it!”

“All of them are impossible.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re irritable.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re—you’re an alcoholic.”

“I’d buy it if I was drunk,” Grantaire smirked. “You’re amazing.”

“You’re a dick.”

“You’re daunting.”

“You’re a failure.”

“You’re flammable. Your brain is soaked in gasoline and at the base of your skull is a zippo lighter,” Grantaire laughed.

“You’re irresponsible.”

“You’re iridescent.”

“You’re impossible,” Enjolras sighed. “I can’t even insult you without you making me feel—it doesn’t matter, your name is a pun.”

“Yours is impossible to pronounce.”

“You said it right the first time we talked.”

“That’s because I spent the entire night before practicing it. Combeferre coached me.”

“He adores you. Never would tell me why. Said I should figure it out for myself, which believe me, does absolutely nothing. Despite his views on educational reform, I’m very glad he’s not a teacher.”

“He’s a good man.”

“When I first met you, you would have said those two words contradicted each other.”

“Then I had the misfortune of meeting you,” Grantaire chuckled. “It’s late. I should go.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’ll see you on Friday, huh? You wear flowers, and I’ll wear—what’s the protest against?”

“The laws against indecent exposure.”

“I’ll wear nothing, then,” Grantaire said, lighting up when he saw the smile playing on Enjolras’ mouth. “There’s that smile. Should’ve brought a camera. Anyway, decent record, for what it’s worth. I’ll bring mine next time, though, so we have something to dance to.”

Enjolras watched Grantaire’s figure retreat out his front door, and he swallowed as the dark head and green sweater retreated out of where he could grab onto him. He hadn’t initiated the touching once, he realised, and in previous years he would have been quite proud of himself, but in that moment all he felt was regret. He rested his head on his arm, leaning on the table and feeling where the wood was still warm before recoiling his fingers quickly.

“I’m fucked,” he said, shaking his head.

OoOoO

 

The feeling hadn’t gotten any better when Friday rolled around. If anything, it had gotten worse, maybe even fermented. Enjolras thought that was the right term. It felt like a mold. Or maybe something intoxicating, like alcohol, in which case fermenting was definitely the right term, considering it applied to Grantaire.

“This isn’t healthy,” he told Combeferre in a half-whisper while setting up for the protest. Despite his efforts to remain quiet, Joly’s head jutted up, and Combeferre had to wave him off.

“Tell me about it. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in forever,” Combeferre replied.

“Wait, are we talking about me?”

“Of course we’re talking about you.”

“Then why can’t you sleep?”

“Because, at any given point Grantaire could drink himself into a coma and you could get yourself into a violent and reckless protest because you refuse to acknowledge your feelings—this is very stressful for me. When the two of you are together, when a unstoppable force meets an immovable object, there is surprisingly less damage than if you two are separate,” Combeferre explained, stamping a stake in the ground with a sign on it, then pulling off his shirt.

Eponine stuck a flower in Combeferre’s hair, taking his shirt and placing it in a bag with the rest of the discarded clothes. “Divide and conquer?” she whispered in his ear, and he nodded at her.

“No, seriously ‘ferre, I’m screwed,” Enjolras stated.

“Feelings?”

“I should go to therapy, or something,” he continued, scratching his head and then glancing around, furtively trying to find Grantaire. “For example, I’m mad at Courfeyrac. Why? Because he has the same hair as Grantaire and from a distance I think it’s him, and I get hopeful and it’s awful.”

“He is doing that on purpose,” Combeferre supplied. “Half to berate you, half to berate Jehan.”

“Jehan,” Enjolras said, remembering something. “I need to find Jehan. Jehan!”

Enjolras darted through the crowd of people, pushing past both Montparnasse and Feuilly, who appeared to be in a heated debate as to why they were protesting, elbowing Courfeyrac with purpose, who had become distracted by Cosette weaving flowers in Marius’ hair. Jehan sat on the edge of their picnic blanket that had been converted into a ‘protest blanket’ according to Grantaire, and had pulled out an acoustic guitar. Before he could start playing he spotted the force of nature that was Enjolras heading towards him, and put aside the guitar to reveal he was wearing very little.

“Prouvaire, I need you to put flowers in my hair.”

“Please, oh marble model of liberty?”

“Please,” Enjolras said, sitting down gracefully, bowing his head, allowing Jehan’s deft fingers to weave the stems of several flowers.

“Roses for you and for Grantaire. Red for you, blue for him. The rest are all white, mostly carnations. Roses are expensive,” Jehan remarked. “Eponine borrowed them from Mabeuf’s garden. Borrowed being the operative word. We probably owe him some flowers for a present later, okay?”

“Okay,” Enjolras replied, his eyes forced towards the protest blanket but darting from side to side to spite himself. “Wait, what happened to the thorns on the rose stems?”

“Grantaire thought of that, already took them off of the red ones for you after I—uh—accidentally scratched him with one. I thought it looked more dramatic.”

“R is here?!” Enjolras asked, yanking his head up and glancing around wildly before Jehan grabbed his head again, continuing with the weaving.

“Of course. Don’t know how he knew you’d ask for flowers, though, since you usually hate them. I think he and Eponine went to go get some fireworks. Thought it would be fun to set them off in the middle of whenever the cops show up and try to arrest us. Oh, I’m looking forward to this,” Jehan grinned. “All done! Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

Enjolras pulled back his head, revealing a perfectly positioned crown of flowers, which Courfeyrac was already grinning at manically.

“Beautiful, Jehan! He can offer roses from his head to his lady or gentlemen of choice,” Courfeyrac said. “Take off your shirt, at _least_ , Enjolras! Otherwise you won’t fit it.”

Sighing, Enjolras stripped his shirt off, and instantly he thought of the way the night had felt on his skin when he and Grantaire had wandered down the streets of Paris in search of a ‘party’. The sun was warm in comparison, but everything was bright and in focus, as if the romantic lens of the evening had worn off.

Therapy. He needed therapy.

“There he is,” said a familiar deep voice, and Enjolras eagerly climbed to his feet to turn to look at Grantaire, who wore the same smile as when Enjolras had seen him last. It was small and endearing, and Enjolras wanted to fall into it, or to wipe it off, or—

“How’d you know I’d go for flowers?” Enjolras asked, and the smirked grew.

“Took a guess,” Grantaire replied. “Are we going to start?”

Enjolras nodded, patting Grantaire once on his bare shoulder, doing his best not to glance down at the exposed chest and the perfectly toned pectoral muscles that were so rarely on display. He swallowed, then boldly looked forward and strode towards the center of the group, where Courfeyrac had set up a small platform for him to stand on. It felt good to feel Grantaire pressed against his back when the crowd surged too close, and Enjolras bit his lip when his heart began to hammer out a beat excitedly.

“Stay on the ground. They might shoot us with pellet guns or gas us out again, and if you are near the center you’ll be the least likely to get hurt,” Enjolras told Grantaire.

“My head’s fine, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Grantaire said.

“Not just your head.”

“No, I’m up there with you,” Grantaire stated. “I won’t hold you back, but you aren’t going alone.” With that, he stepped up onto the platform, grabbing a flag in one hand and hoisting up Enjolras with the other. The two were side by side until Courfeyrac stepped in between them with his white flowers, much to Combeferre’s dismay.

Grantaire proudly waved the flag as Enjolras began to lead a call and response chant, and the voices of the thirteen Amis were quickly joined by others, clumps of people picking up the tune. Some of them stripped their clothes off in response, while others simply strode over, standing among the protestors. What started off as a protest of twenty or so people swelled as groups of individuals strode towards them, some hastily constructing banners of their own, much to Feuilly’s amusement, and others grabbing a partner and kissing them passionately. Courfeyrac murmured his gratitude that Gavroche was in school still, and Cosette grinned at Marius before kissing him fervently.

“When do we start the—uh—demonstrations?” Bahorel called up to Enjolras.

“When the police arrive,” Enjolras shouted back. “Any minute now. Find a partner. Someone pass me a megaphone—“ Musichetta passed one up, “—thanks. Courf, you carry on the call and response.” Enjolras flicked the megaphone on. “You have the right to be with whoever you love! You can express that love whatever way you want to! We live under the illusion of freedom, and they want you to listen to them, to obey them—but ignore their laws! They don’t own your body!”

Distantly, sirens became audible. Grantaire grinned at Enjolras, and he had to keep yelling to fight off the blush that threatened to spill down his cheeks and onto his neck and chest. A smile threatened to span across his face, and he had to remind himself of the gravity of the situation.

“Who are they to put limits on decency? We were all born equally nude, and now we have to fight to be comfortable in the skin we’ve been given. You have the right to be whoever you want to, and you have the right to embrace whoever you like wearing as little as you like. You stand here today, making history. Let them know they can restrict your body, but not your mind! Today, we who live in chains fight for the freedoms of those that will live tomorrow!” Enjolras cried, watching as the police pulled up to the curb. Some of the protesters on the outer ring strayed, but the majority of those who had come to stand with them remained there.

An officer attempted to break through the wall of people, and Enjolras nodded down to Bahorel and Feuilly. The two stepped up on a second, smaller platform, Feuilly’s legs wrapped around Bahorel’s waist, and the two began zealously making out, Bahorel yanking off Feuilly’s shirt. There was a fifteen second interval between that and Enjolras’ second nod.

Once the signal was given, Marius and Cosette stepped up on their small step stool, grinding and kissing simultaneously, Cosette once again covered by only her long blonde hair.

Another fifteen seconds passed, and then, in perfect synchronisation, Bossuet and Musichetta joined the mass. Courfeyrac, fifteen seconds later, leaned down to kiss Combeferre, but he was quickly batted off by Eponine, who took his place and then stepped up on a stand of their own.

Musichetta pulled back to whistle at Cosette, and Bossuet stepped off the stool  just as Cosette leaped onto it, embracing Musichetta and then continuing on her ministrations from before. Marius was gobsmacked for a moment, but Courfeyrac seized the opportunity to step off the podium and stick his tongue down Marius’ throat. Grantaire laughed at the surprised noise Marius made, continuing the waving of his flag, hoisting it high above his head.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras hissed. “Swap partners!”

Combeferre said nothing, but tightened his hold around Eponine’s bare back, shaking his head slightly.

Bossuet frowned, heaving Combeferre off Eponine, who continued to grasp at him, and another female protester stepped onto the platform, embracing her and kissing her. Enjolras nodded. The point had been made.

“Where are Montparnasse and Jehan?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras froze. The police were breaking through the crowd, Eponine and the female protester had already been yanked apart, and Feuilly and Bahorel were being grabbed at, handfuls visible.

“Shit, leave it to Montparnasse to bail,” Enjolras swore. “We need a fifth same sex couple, I—“

Grantaire grinned, placing his hand on the back of Enjolras’ neck and leaning in, pausing a second before their lips brushed. “All right with you?”

With his heart hammering  loudly in his throat, Enjolras put one hand on Grantaire’s jaw, and the other on his hip, pulling him in close and then meeting their mouths carefully, as though he was worried the pieces wouldn’t fit. Grantaire’s lips were rough against his own, although Enjolras’ would have been too smooth on their own, and he felt the heat and breath between the two of them exchange. For a moment it was tender, and chaste—nothing that would lead a protest, but Enjolras had forgotten why he was here. Everything was explained by the electricity that ran between the two of them. Why was he so high? Grantaire. Why could he smell the smoke of pellet guns? Grantaire. Why was the sun warming his skin so sweetly? Grantaire.

Headily, he slipped his tongue into Grantaire’s mouth, finding a tongue on the other side that met his softly, and he was amazed that there was no distant taste of vodka or absinthe. Nothing was bitter, or too sweet, or salty, like his other kisses had been—everything was Grantaire, and he dissolved entirely when he felt Grantaire’s other arm wrap around his back, the flag brushing his exposed skin.

Somewhere in the distance, Combeferre was cheering.

It would have been perfect if not for the fist that collided with his ribs and tried to pull him back, to which he replied with a sharp kick in the officers face, pulling back from Grantaire, breathless and joyous. Grantaire looked like he had discovered a way to brew absinthe in his bathtub—as if he had found the world’s treasures by accident, stumbling onto them in a crowded place.

“Let’s run,” Enjolras said, and quickly the crowd dispersed, fleeing the park once Enjolras had sprinted off. They all ran in different directions, but everyone took their signs and flowers, their secondary location in mind.

The police followed them closely, and while Grantaire was all too aware of the instructions to separate from their partner, he stuck with Enjolras, their footsteps almost in time as they beat out a hurried rhythm. They ducked into a café, dodging in between tables and then into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding the kitchen crew, Grantaire bumping into someone and sending a pot flying. Once they were out back, Enjolras hoisted himself over the fence and Grantaire stumbled after him, falling over into Enjolras.

They sprinted for another block or two, ducking between streets and alleyways, until eventually they looped around, returning to the park. Forty or so protestors had already returned, and Enjolras eagerly stepped back onto the podium, pulling Grantaire back up. Courfeyrac took his place between them, grinning manically.

“I’ve never seen Pontmercy look so surprised! I thought he was going to fall into Cosette and plead for forgiveness—oh, so funny—“

“—the police are going to be pissed!” Bahorel reminded everyone. He pulled Feuilly behind him, who frowned pointedly and stepped beside him as a hundred or so others filed in, everyone clumping around Enjolras. Within five minutes and only fifty other people arriving, Enjolras began the call and response, quickly passing that duty off to carry on his speech.

Behind him, Combeferre hadn’t stopped grinning. “Thank God Montparnasse bailed. I’d kiss him if I wasn’t worried I’d catch something. I’m going to buy him a fruit basket,” he told Eponine, although by the time he turned around, she was back on a stand, this time kissing and rubbing against Cosette. Music had been turned up loudly from a nearby café, and Musichetta had begun to kiss Bossuet again. Bahorel and Feuilly resumed, this time in tandem with Jehan and Courfeyrac. Their kiss was less dramatic as Jehan seemed to be laughing at something Courfeyrac had said and Courfeyrac bore a smile. They looked happy.

Enjolras felt a hand snake around the bruise on his side, and he leaned into Grantaire as subtly as possible, the pain spreading faintly. He was too consumed with the body next to him to think about his ribs, but Grantaire seemed to murmur something about them to him.

“—okay?”

Enjolras nodded, pausing to listen to what the other man had to say.

“No, keep going,” Grantaire said. “I know you have the speech memorised, just listen.”

“—you are allowed to love another human being. That was the best gift you were given,” Enjolras resumed.

“Correct. And I neglected it for most of my life, until Combeferre introduced us in that museum, next to that statue of Apollo, and I realised my petty little soul had not been a waste of atoms.”

“Gender is irrelevant. How shocked the rest of the world is also is irrelevant. You are allowed to love, and you are allowed to be loved, and embracing that in whatever way you can is the only right that matters.”

“And yet I held it back for so long,” Grantaire whispered in Enjolras’ ear. “Everyone knew but you. They pitied me but I felt bad for them, because I was lit on by the same spark that set the universe aglow and they were blinded by the fact it wasn’t mutual.”

“—we are a nation of lovers that is punishing the corporeal embodiment of love—“

“Of course I rarely agree with your political opinions. You believe in the entire human race, and I only believe in one member. That’s okay. And when I hit my head, I became so convinced that you saw the world the way I did. Maybe it was because you came right after I woke up, maybe if Courfeyrac had walked in it would have been him.”

“—and who your body chooses to embrace alongside your soul should matter only to your lover and you—“

“—no, it was always you, wasn’t it?”

“You can’t deny how you feel, and a government can’t restrict what is consensual. This is not a matter of equal punishment so much as it is raising up all of us. Your body, your soul, your lover—none of these things can be bought and restricted by a bill. Tell them no. Tell them how you feel about another human being can’t be limited by a piece of paper.”

“Pretty words for someone whose never been arrested for indecent exposure for kissing another man. Well, came close, just then. Still, I’m sorry. That was selfish of me because I love you and you don’t love me.”

Enjolras spluttered, taking a breath before continuing. Something caught in his voice. “Stand up and say how you feel, damn it! Even if it’s hard. Even if it feels like no one is listening.”

“Little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“We are born, we love, we die. Let them know laws can’t be placed on that. This is the age of free love. Let them know they can’t charge a tax.”

“You’d be a rich man if there was a tax on such things, and I’d be broke. I think I admire you even more for that, you know. Golden, chaste light—“

Enjolras shut off the megaphone. “—quit using bloody metaphors and read the subtext, you drunk, concussed bastard,” he said, grabbing Grantaire and pulling him in for a second kiss, this one beginning sharp and becoming sweet as the anger dissipated into affection and Grantaire returned it, his slightly chapped lips capturing Enjolras’ lower one, which became pliable under his touch.

“I’m an idiot, can you repeat that?” Grantaire said, pulling away. “This time on the record.”

“I have— _feelings_ —for you. Weird feelings. Sometimes not-so-great, sometimes fantastic. And I’ve always had them, okay? Since that goddamn day at the museum. I’m not chaste, okay? There’s just never been anyone else.”

“You never said—“

“—well, neither did you. I figured there was nothing there. Makes sense now why Combeferre was so impatient—“

“—four years,” Grantaire remarked. “We waited four years.”

“I’m not that patient,” Enjolras said, grabbing Grantaire and ducking close, avoiding a pellet fired from a distant gun, kissing him with a smile on his lips.

 

OoOoO

 

Enjolras was warm. It was three a.m. and he was completely engulfed in a human furnace that smelt distinctly of his shampoo and the distant aroma of paint, and still he wanted more. His slighter frame was tucked between Grantaire’s arms, his head brushing against Grantaire’s nose occasionally as Grantaire snored. Even asleep, Grantaire pressed ghosts of kisses against his forehead, and from time to time murmured his name in the dark. He sighed, relaxing his muscles.

“I love you,” he whispered to Grantaire. There was no movement and his breathing continued to be deep and measured. “The day we met I was angry at you for hours and we barely talked. I got drunk thinking about you, got high over you—I stayed up late so I could think about you, held your hand in the ambulance. Told you I loved you then, in your ear. It’s all my fault you had that dream about us together. Don’t tell Combeferre, but I love you.”

The sheets were still distantly damp as he pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s nose and then lips, drifting off listening to the other man breathe and the world outside the window. There was marijuana in the air and a siren far off in the distance that stirred them both briefly.

“Think that was a nuke?” Grantaire asked, his voice groggy with sleep.

“Doubt it. Maybe,” Enjolras replied, muttering against Grantaire’s skin.

“If we all go up, I’m glad I went with you,” he said, pulling Enjolras close.

“We won’t go up like this. Not now,” Enjolras sighed, feeling weights dragging down his eyelids. “When we go out and up, it’ll be glorious.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: for Hippie-Pontmercy on tumblr, whose url inspired this. Check them out!   
> Historical notes: the President of France throughout the 1960s was Charles de Gaulle, who made France the fourth nuclear power in the Cold War. While homosexuality was made legal during the French Revolution that began in 1789, there was a law enacted in the 60s in France that meant that homosexuality was ‘public indecency’ and those who were found guilty of it received double the sentence than opposite gendered couples charged with a similar crime. I figured Enjolras would have issues with both of these things.  
> If I got minor things wrong historically, I apologize. I’m Canadian and my sources could be faulty. Thank you for bearing with me, and thanks to Hippie-Pontmercy, my lovely secret santa for the Les Mis secret santa exchange on tumblr.   
> Merry Christmas!  
> Love,  
> leahxleah


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